An unsure look covers his face. I ask again with a rising voice, “What?”
“Say Gene recruited Cate on behalf of the Daltons. Promised her a spot on the Supreme Court if she saved Hank Dalton from that large verdict. Great plan on paper to save $422 million. Fast forward to the present. Things have gotten sticky, and the Daltons realize that their little conspiracy is shot to hell. What do they do? Eliminate anyone who can get them into trouble. Lo and behold, Gene Davis is murdered. At the same time, a car bomb is placed under the car that Cate Slattery is riding in. Blowing her up would take out the last witness against the Daltons. It makes sense, right? She could’ve been the target, Chance—not you. You’re just a nice little bonus. The puzzle pieces fit.”
Scott’s right. I don’t like what he has to say.
“Her name didn’t come up at all in that conversation we recorded between Jerry and Tommy. Gene came up. The Governor. Me. Not a mention of Cate at all. You’re reaching.”
“Between the wind and them walking around, we missed most of that conversation. Her name could’ve come up.”
“Did Cate actually pull the trigger and murder Warren Jackson in this little conspiracy you dreamed up in your head?”
“Man, I don’t know. But she was there—two doors down. She had about as good an opportunity as anyone. You need to open your eyes.”
“You’re getting dangerously close to a line you shouldn’t cross.”
He throws up his hands in a “don’t shoot the messenger” pose, and I walk on—his words penetrating my skin and worming their way into every dark crevice of my internal organs. I remember what Cate said to me just last night—which now seems like ages ago: “We’re all imposters, Chance, pretending to be someone we’re not.”
No matter. I refuse to believe Cate is involved and will sleep a lot better when I can prove Scott wrong.
When we reach the car, I ask him, “You have a holster or something? I’m tired of carrying this gun around in my pocket.”
He pops the trunk and tosses me a hip holster. I attach it to my side. The fit of the revolver in the holster is snug. I draw the gun in a quick motion for practice. The ridiculousness of the situation is not lost on me—a car bomb under my restored Corvette, the stashing of my quasi-girlfriend or whatever she is at the Governor’s Mansion, and me ready to go forth onto the Atlanta streets decked out like a modern-day cowboy with a big iron on his hip. Thinking about my daily routine before the Bernard Barton trial, I have little idea how I reached this point. Life comes at you fast.
***
We drive in uneasy silence to the scene where Gene Davis was murdered. The friendship between Scott and me is one largely devoid of tension. The unwelcome friction now festering between us is an extra layer of stress that I don’t need. I offer an olive branch to him by talking about the case—anything to return to a sense of normalcy.
“Sophie and J.D. aren’t homicide detectives. Is anyone experienced at the scene or are you supposed to be primary?”
“Mathis is there.”
“Excellent.”
I worked with Mathis on a number of murder cases over the years. He’s one of Scott’s top people in the Atlanta homicide division.
“Learn anything else when I was inside the Mansion?”
“A little. The bomb folks don’t want to do anything until morning. They don’t think the bomb will blow up on its own, so they’re content with waiting until they have some daylight before disarming it. I told Marlon no reason exists for him to hang around there. He’s going back to the squad room to check on our wiretaps. Sophie and J.D. are watching Mathis do his thing. Mathis promised to leave everything as is until we get there.”
“Who gets the bomb when they disarm the thing?”
“One of my best fingerprint techs is on standby to dust for prints first thing—outside, inside, all of it. After that, the feds are going to dissect the bomb to see what they can learn from the components and all that stuff. They’re experts at tracking parts. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
I hold out hope for some prints. Building a bomb requires a degree of precision that may preclude the use of gloves. Or so I suppose. Scott is right about the FBI’s tracking capability of the smallest little part, but that kind of work is a long slog. I fear we don’t have that kind of time.
As we near the scene of Gene’s murder, Scott says, “You know the deal with Cate isn’t personal, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The other people near Warren Jackson that night—Beverly Jackson, Senator Clements, Gary and Aurora Winnett, Adam Lumpkin, Larry Miller—none of them link up with the $422 million verdict. Cate was there and she links up to the civil case. Just like the Daltons. Surely you see that, right?”
“I’m not blind. But she’s not that woman. I know her.”
“For less than two weeks. You of all people should know better.”
“Rest assured, my eyes are wide open. But you’re seeing things from the outside. I’m seeing them from the inside. I have the better view. You’re my best friend in the whole world, and I’m asking you to put your faith in me. I’m not wrong on this one. I trust Cate with my life.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
46
Gene’s body remains where the killer left it—half-turned and wedged against the steering wheel, the drooping head facing toward the passenger side of the car, a bullet hole dotting the bridge of his flat nose. The seat belt is a tangled mess and might’ve strangled him if he had any life left after the shooting. The driver side window is caked with drying blood.
Mathis greets us and provides a rundown.
“Nasty piece of work this one. And the Governor’s Chief of Staff, too? Swell. Feel free to take it off my hands. Anyway, the kill shot came from the passenger seat. Nothing stolen that we can tell. We got his wallet and phone. The guess is that he met up with someone, and they offed him. In the summer, hookers ply their trade around here, but you don’t get much action in this weather. And hookers killing their customers is bad for business. There’s the pimp angle. Maybe they thought he was a cop. But since you guys are here, I’m gonna guess that something else is at work.”
Scott responds, “Good guess.”
Mathis goes on, “Uniforms have been making the rounds to everyone in the area. No witnesses or nothing yet. Your people have been asking questions, too. The shooter would’ve had to be covered in blood. I figure the perp had to drive away. Couldn’t make it too far on foot looking like that.”
I ask, “What time you thinking?”
“Between seven and eight. Got called in around eight-thirty.”
Scott turns to me, “When did you arrive at the restaurant?”
“Close to seven, I think. A little after probably.”
Mathis asks, “What’s this about a restaurant?”
“Someone put a bomb under Chance’s car tonight.”
“A car bomb? Connected to this?”
“That’s the working theory.”
But the timing stretches the theory to its outer plausibility. The restaurant isn’t that close to here. And Navy SEAL or not, Jerry Dalton can’t be in two places at one time. The nature of Gene’s killing also screams amateur. A gunshot at close range in a car is loud and messy, too many things can go wrong. Not Jerry’s style. That leaves Tommy, but he’s not the type to get his hands dirty.
I ask Mathis, “Can we see the phone and wallet?”
He returns with two evidence bags. Telltale markings indicate that the crime scene techs have already dusted for prints. I hold the bag containing the phone to the light. The device is cheap and older-looking. I motion to Scott to come over and give him a look.
He observes, “That’s not his phone. I held on to his phone when you went to talk to Tommy Dalton. That’s not it.”
“I didn’t think so. Mathis, where did you find this phone?”
“Glove compartment.”
“This isn’t Gene’s phone. Can you search the car again
? Maybe the floorboard and under the seat.”
He nods and gets to it. I text Marlon to ping Gene’s phone when he gets the chance. Scott sidles up to me and wonders, “If Jerry planted the bomb on your car, then who killed Gene?”
“Not Cate. She has an airtight alibi.”
“Touché.”
Sophie and J.D. join us to explain that no one in the vicinity saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. The streetwalker angle is also a dead end. Not a soul is out in this part of the neighborhood.
Scott quips, “Maybe the prostitutes all went south for the winter.”
Mathis returns and confirms that no other phone is in Gene’s car. He asks, “What does it mean?”
I answer, “It means that the phone is the thing.”
“You taking the case from me?”
“I don’t know, but we will take the phone you found in the glove compartment.”
***
Scott and I ride to the squad room for a team meeting in the dead of night. We stop to grab coffee and donuts for everyone on the way. The nocturnal world of murder doesn’t lend itself to healthy living. I feel sick already.
He says, “We should go to the shooting range tomorrow. When is the last time you even fired a gun?”
“Probably when I killed that rattlesnake that was about to strike you.”
The memory is not a happy one for him, and a flood of curses escapes from his lips. But the shooting range is a good idea, and he promises to schedule it for the both of us. When he calms down, I drift back to the case.
I ask, “Think Gene was trying to get someone to confess while he recorded that person on his cell?”
“Barbara’s idea of ‘irrefutable proof,’ huh? Could be. Perp gets wise to what’s happening, caps Gene, and gets away with the phone. Also would get Cate off the hook for Warren Jackson, which is the result you’re looking for.”
“You have a better theory?”
“No, except the phone likely shows who Gene was meeting with. Taking it makes sense under any scenario.”
“And if Gene and Jackson were killed by the same person, then Cate’s off the hook anyway because she damn sure didn’t kill Gene.”
He grunts. The donuts smell good—too good. I’m not even hungry but am drawn to them all the same. Just like old times. I remember the days of late nights and junk food, sugar and caffeine. It could be worse. In earlier decades, people like me smoked cigarettes like a chimney. Here’s to progress.
Scott observes, “Maybe Gene saw something the night that Jackson was killed and didn’t realize the significance until later.”
“Unconnected to the Dalton business?”
“Possibly.”
“You were just telling me that Cate was the only known person near Jackson that night with a link to the Hank Dalton lawsuit. Now you’re saying that the lawsuit may not be relevant to Jackson’s murder?”
“Just thinking out loud. I like to keep an open mind.”
***
J.D. digs into the donuts. The youngest member of the team, he has the body to handle the metabolic assault. But that doesn’t stop the rest of us from helping ourselves, too. I wish there were a way to inject the coffee directly into my veins. Failing that, I take a big sip. After we all get settled, Marlon provides an update on where things stand.
“News of your failure to die has reached the Daltons. Tommy called Jerry. They didn’t talk long, but your name did come up.”
“Did Jerry admit to doing it?”
“I’ll let you listen and decide for yourself.”
He starts the recording.
Tommy: What happened tonight? Meridian—
Jerry: Not on the phone.
Tommy: But he’s—
Jerry: Don’t talk business on the phone. I saw the news. Someone tried to blow up Meridian’s car. Let’s meet tomorrow to talk about it, same place as last time. One o’clock. And don’t talk to anyone between now and then, either.
Tommy: Gene Davis is dead, too.
[Long silence.]
Jerry: I know nothing about that. See you tomorrow.
The recording runs its course. The silent void in the air feels ominous this deep into the night. No one rushes to speak, and I realize that everyone is waiting for me. Whether it’s because I’m the titular leader or because I almost got blown up, I don’t know. Either way, I get the ball rolling.
“As the previous wiretaps show, Jerry knows—or is smart enough to suspect—that they are being recorded. We should interpret everything he says in that light. Tommy is just an idiot.”
“The dumb ones always go into politics,” notes Marlon.
We all share a laugh, more for cathartic release than the joke’s merits. But juiced with coffee and donuts and the stress of the evening’s events, sometimes a good joke can work as powerful medicine. I bring us back to task.
“Are we thinking Liberty Plaza again for the meeting tomorrow?”
Sophie chimes in, “Good chance. We dropped the tail, so they could’ve met somewhere else since then, but Liberty Plaza is my guess.”
“Marlon, with all the toys at the FBI’s disposal, could we rig things so that we could hear every word between the brothers tomorrow?”
“Pretty damn close. I mean, if they whisper into each other’s ears, maybe not. But the FBI has state-of-the-art type stuff. They should be able to catch most of it.”
“Sounds good. Get with FBI agent Bill at first light and set it up. Also, see if they have any interest in tailing Tommy in case the meet is at a different site.”
I lean back in my chair and assess the hard truth. Gene’s murder means that we have absolutely nothing on the Daltons as things now sit. Even the audio recording of Gene’s ham-fisted bribery attempt is of little value. With Gene and Warren Jackson both dead, no one living can authenticate the conversation. The Daltons are in the clear. My inner Scott muses, “Unless Cate is involved and turns State’s evidence.” I strangle the thought. Cate has been through enough without my turning against her. The guilt of abandoning her stabs my heart anew.
I ask, “Anything useful from Gene’s phone?”
Marlon responds, “Not a thing. His texts and calls provide no indication of meeting anyone tonight. I also pinged the cell to see where it might be hiding, but the phone didn’t respond to the ping. That’s something more than a dead battery. Someone took the effort to take the battery out first. Best guess is that the phone is in a deep sleep, probably at the bottom of one of Atlanta’s sewers.”
“All right. J.D., you can start the search in the morning.”
He stares at me with worried eyes, and I maintain a blank façade for as long as I can until my smile lets him in on the joke. More laughter follows in the room, and an oasis of happiness lands on me for a moment, despite everything. I choose to savor it and suck out whatever juices in the marrow that I can.
The scene is one that has been absent from my life these past six months. I don’t miss the courtroom. I don’t miss the long hours. I don’t miss scarfing down unhealthy food as I sprint to the next thing. But I do miss the camaraderie of being part of a team unified in pursuit of a common purpose. Aristotle himself observed that man is a social animal. Isolation carries the potential both to rejuvenate and drive one stark raving mad. The trick in life is to find the Golden Mean between the two extremes. Aristotle taught that, too.
Scott says, “That reminds me, Marlon. We have a little gift for you.”
He holds out the plastic evidence bag containing the cell phone found in the dashboard of Gene’s car and explains the backstory. Marlon looks like a kid at Christmas. He takes the bag and gets to work.
47
The meeting ends. Expressions of relief that I’m still alive are passed around. I tell everyone to go home before delirium sets in, and most of the team takes me up on the offer before I change my mind. Scott and I linger to get an initial report from Marlon, who is off in a corner by himself huddled over the phone. Taylor sneaks Scott a kiss bef
ore she leaves. I pretend not to notice.
I pick up the incomplete transcript between Jerry and Tommy Dalton that led me to believe that the Governor’s life was in danger. Based on the bomb underneath my Corvette, I analyze the conversation with fresh eyes and try to reconstruct it with me as the target in Jerry Dalton’s crosshairs.
Tommy: I’m worried about Gene. We’re exposed.
Jerry: Serves us right. Soft men like him can’t be [trusted.]
[The audio cuts out.]
Jerry: [I’m] wary of the Governor [and what he hopes to accomplish. We need to] do something.
[Dead air.]
Tommy: [There’s no way we can] stop the investigation.
[Silence.]
Jerry: Ever hear [the] saying [that] ‘If someone is coming to kill you, get up early and kill him first’? We’re behind the eight ball here, and that needs to change. We [have to be willing to do whatever it takes.]
Tommy: But what?
Jerry: I [think we should take Meridian out.]
[Sound of wind whipping the microphone.]
Tommy: [But] Meridian and the Governor are close [and the Governor will ramp up the investigation if Meridian is killed.]
[Inaudible.]
Tommy: [We can’t even be sure things will be] different with someone new [in charge of the investigation.]
Jerry: [Meridian gone means the case should go back] to the GBI. [We can ramp up the] political pressure [on the Governor. Last time we were caught] flatfooted.
Tommy: Are you sure? [The simpler solution would be just killing] Gene.
Jerry: And let [Meridian investigate us for that, too?]
Tommy: The whole thing makes me nervous.
Jerry: Let me handle it.
My own stupidity slaps me hard across the face. Minton was never in danger. If he dies, the Lieutenant Governor becomes Governor, putting him in the way of Tommy Dalton’s electoral path. Even though the Lieutenant Governor is a weak politician without much of a following, the power of incumbency can do wonders. The game changes if he somehow ascends to the top spot. Tommy would do everything possible to avoid running for governor against the incumbent.
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 21
